


Songs of Innocence and Experience

by asuralucier



Series: Live and Learn [1]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Charles is 16, Gen, Jailbait au, M/M, X-Men: First Class (2011), inspired by Fishtank, nobody is a good person in this but they try
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 06:25:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15902688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: "Why are you sleeping with my mother?"Charles is sixteen and watches men wander in and out of his mother’s bedroom. None of them are memorable, except Erik Lehnsherr.





	Songs of Innocence and Experience

**Author's Note:**

> Something I wrote for a prompt on xmen_firstkink way back when in 2011. Upon revisiting it, I'm still really proud of this fic and its sequel so I've cleaned it up.

Charles Xavier was sixteen. He was beginning to think he didn't want to get any older. 

Men who wandered of his mother’s bedroom were not memorable. They had names, but Charles never remembered them. The men all blurred together. They treated his mother like she was some shameful secret, and they liked to pretend that Charles did not exist.

Once, Charles invited one of her boyfriends into his bedroom. Out of a morbid kind of curiosity, he supposed, and not much else beside that. The boyfriend had filthy rough hands and greedy eyes. 

He let the man put his hands and his mouth wherever he liked, because this was the way his mother kept men around. Perhaps if he tried it once for himself, it would make sense. She seemed addicted to it, the attention. The sex, as if she was always looking for something, somebody.

It did not. The pain lingered long afterwards, and Charles never saw the man again. 

 

When school was in session, Charles didn’t have to worry about much. His father had left him enough money so Charles could be enrolled in a prestigious boarding school in Scotland. His mother was left behind during these months in New York in a lonely house that was never lonely. He hated the summers. 

Charles slept late in the summer, because he knew that if he slept late enough on purpose, he would not have to see anyone. 

But this time, there was a man Charles didn’t recognize in his kitchen. The kitchen was “his” simply because his mother never set foot in here. He hated the man on sight because the man was proving his postulate wrong. 

“You must be Charles,” said the man. He barely spared him a glance. “Sharon told me a lot about you.” 

Charles went to the cabinet and retrieved a mug. He noted that there was already a pot going, so he helped himself. “My mother talks about me in bed?” 

The man gave him a look, “You must get that from your father.” 

“Maybe, I never knew him.” Charles said, dumping a generous spoonful of brown sugar into his mug. 

The man opened his mouth, closed it again. “Do you normally just have coffee for breakfast? That seems really unhealthy.”

The man reeked of cigarette smoke and something else. He was certainly the picture of healthy. 

“Normally, I don’t have breakfast,” said Charles. The more the man talked, the more he hated him. “My mother doesn’t like it when I take her food.” 

The man said, “Come with me.” 

 

The man’s name was Erik Lehnsherr, he was thirty years old, and a whole decade younger than Sharon Xavier. Erik told all this to Charles in the car, although Charles didn’t want to know. Erik drove to a deli that Charles went to sometimes, and bought them both sandwiches. They ate in the car, and drank coffee from one thermos bottle. 

What Charles really wanted to know, was why Erik even bothered with his mother. Sharon Xavier was a well enough kept forty-something, but she didn’t look thirty. Maybe it was because his father left behind money. 

“Why are you sleeping with my mother?” 

“Because,” Erik drew out the word. There was a long pause after that. He motioned for the thermos bottle and Charles handed it over, their fingers touched. 

“Because I like her.” 

“What do you like about her?” 

Erik pressed his lips to the edge of the thermos bottle; the edge of his mouth lifted up into a sort of knowing smirk, “Charles, are you jealous of your mother?” 

Charles closed his eyes and imagined filthy hands, a sloppy mouth. “No. No, I’m not. Take me home.” 

 

His mother was waiting for them when Charles and Erik got home. Charles watched the two of them kiss, and threw up a little in his mouth. Maybe.

Erik said, “Charles and I had a nice lunch together.” 

His mother said, “I hope you weren’t any trouble.” 

Erik said quickly before Charles could reply, “He wasn’t.” 

That had to be the first step to a truce. He didn’t know what kind of truce he could strike with his man, but Charles didn’t particularly want to try. He went upstairs.

 

Raven was ten years old. Charles had no idea where she came from, or who she really was, but she was usually at the library when he was there. Because he didn’t want to bother with friends his own age, he told her about his mother’s boyfriends. 

“This newest one took me to lunch, his name is Erik.” 

“He sounds nice,” said Raven.

“My mother’s boyfriends are never nice,” said Charles, who had settled in a soft chair with George Orwell’s _1984_ ; he’d read it before, but it was a good enough book for him to read again.

She leaned in next to him, “My mom’s boyfriends aren’t, either. But at least I don’t complain about them.” Her voice got quieter and quieter.

Charles couldn’t say anything to that. “What are you reading?” 

Raven showed him, “The Summer of My German Soldier.” It was a book that Charles had heard of, but never read because he avoided anything romantic. “It’s very good. You remind me of Anton.” 

“Oh,” even though the statement did not mean anything to him, it felt heavy. Charles curled a hand around her fingers and held them tight. 

 

Brian Xavier was a man who dreamed too much, and died too early. A tumor had metastasized in his brain. Seven-year-old Charles had to hunt down a dictionary and figure out what that word meant. It was a scientific term that meant “blown up.” 

Charles hardly remembered what his father looked like. Sometimes he would stand in front of his bathroom mirror and try to glean from his own face the man who was his father. More often than not, he found nothing. In a photograph that still sat in their living room, Brian had sported a neat beard and tennis whites.

And his father had liked music. He’d left behind a battered old CD player and a pair of scratchy headphones that only sometimes worked. The walls were paper thin in the house because it was old, and even though the house was big, his mother’s bedroom was still next to his. 

He listened to Liszt and Chopin over the sounds of her having sex, but his headphones didn’t work one night, and he just lay very still. The bed was creaking loudly one wall over. There was loud breathing, bits of words. 

Finally, he got up. Sharon Xavier had always assumed that Charles slept like a log like her late husband, but he didn’t. The door to her bedroom was slightly open, and he stood silently next to the crack. 

Their bodies didn’t seem to fit. His mother was still half wearing her nightgown, but Charles could still see the way her skin looked old. Her face was scrunched up in an expression of almost pained ecstasy. Erik’s face was buried between his mother’s legs. He was completely naked, and Charles could see the rest of him. His fingers ached; his fingers weren’t the only thing that ached. 

“Oh, Erik. Erik. _Oh_.” 

Charles shut his eyes, he didn’t want to see his mother’s face.

There was the sound of something wet moving, “ -- Like that, don’t you?” That was Erik’s voice, deep, smooth, obscene. Charles pushed a hand down his pants and curled a hand around his cock.

“Like that, don’t you?”

Charles squeezed himself once, very gently. He did not do this often. A small audible sound escaped his throat.

The noises from her bedroom stopped.

Charles ran. Six or seven agonizing steps back to his own bedroom. After that, he locked the door behind him. 

The noises started up again. The creaking, the sighs. Charles pushed down his pants to his ankles, but couldn’t bring himself to touch. 

After a while, the noises stopped. Were they sleeping? Maybe if Charles was very quiet --

He cupped a hand over his own head, and rolled his thumb over the slit. His hands were clammy and cold.

The knock that sounded on his bedroom door made him limp again in a hurry. Charles waited for his mother’s sharp accusations, usually paired off smoothly with a touch of hysteria. 

“Charles? Charles, let me in, it’s Erik.” 

It took Charles a few minutes to remember how to breathe again. He kicked off his pants and went to open the door. Erik was dressed. His hair was mussed, and he smelled.

“What do you want?” 

“I should be asking you that question,” Erik stepped in the room, and turned the lock again. 

“My mother will wake up,” Charles said. “She’ll throw you out of the house.” (Not because the man was touching her son, but because the man dared touch someone else. She was a selfish woman.) 

“Your mother is very, very tired. I don’t think she’ll wake up until morning.” Erik looked smug, in the way that Charles hated, but he was still of the conflicting opinion that the man’s mouth had to feel wonderful. “If we are quiet.” 

“I can -- I can do that.” 

Erik reached for his pajama top and his fingers lingered near the top buttons, “May I take this off?” 

Charles’ heart was thumping out of his ribcage. It had to be so loud, even Erik could hear it. He nodded. His felt warm, and he tried to rub some of the red out from his cheeks. 

“Stop it, Charles, you are lovely.” When his pajama top slid to the ground, Erik planted a kiss to his throat and sucked. All the blood that had rushed to his face earlier now rushed between his legs to fill out his erection. 

Charles made a little noise. 

“Shh, quietly.” 

As if in some kind of trance, Charles climbed on his bed. Erik put one hand over his mouth, and then followed suit, stretching over him, solid and warm. He made another noise, but Erik’s hand muffled whatever noise he would have made. His other hand slid down to find Charles’ cock, enveloping it with heated, practiced fingers. 

Erik put his mouth next to Charles’ ear and whispered, “Have you always been watching?” 

How his body ached, Erik was slow, meticulous. Charles shook his head no. 

“Just tonight?” 

One nod. 

His hips snapped up, desperate for more friction, but when he arched, Erik’s hand slowed down. “Patience. Like what you see?” 

Charles pried Erik’s fingers away, “ -- Just you.” he said. “Please please, give me --” 

Erik relented, his motions got sharper, harder. Charles moved his hips the best he could to keep up. When he came, he almost didn’t expect it, his orgasm hit him, and one of his hands clenched at Erik’s elbow. Erik kept his hand on him, until he was completely spent. He looked at the semen staining his fingers. Holding his breath, Charles waited. 

Erik just leaned forward, kissed him on the forehead. “Good night, Charles.” 

Charles didn’t move when Erik left the room. He was never going to see this man again, anyway. 

 

The next morning, Charles stayed in his room until noon. He was drowsy, and in a bad mood. He didn’t want to deal with his mother if she happened to be in a bad mood too. After he dressed, he found a note stuffed under his door. The note was scrawled in a handwriting he didn’t recognize: 

_Your mother and I are going to be gone until late afternoon. Breakfast for you in the fridge._

Charles went downstairs and found a plate of cold waffles. He doused them with chocolate sauce and ate them. His mother was not in the habit of making him breakfast.

 

Raven said, “But we aren’t supposed to have food inside the library.” 

“It’s all right, we’re hiding in the corner.” Besides, Raven always looked hungry, and Charles couldn’t stand it. “Eat. Erik made them, it’s very good.” 

She took a bite of the chocolate-doused waffle, “So you like Erik now?” 

Charles tried not to think about last night, “He’s all right.” He supposed he didn’t have to like Erik as a whole person to like his hands and his mouth. 

Raven licked her fingers, “ -- You know, we should run away. We don’t have to be here. Wouldn’t that be nice? Do you know how to make these waffles? We could have these every day.” 

“No, but I could learn,” Charles wanted her to stop talking like this. If she grew up, she’d know so many other things. “Bring me that book you were reading, I’ll read it to you.” 

 

When Charles returned home from the library, it was the late afternoon. He had a few books with him, and he found his mother and Erik settled on the couch very close together. He didn’t recognize the movie they were watching. 

“I enjoyed my waffles this morning,” Charles said to no one in particular. He watched Erik for a reaction, and Erik didn’t even bother to look at him. 

His mother spared him a glance, “That’s nice, sweetheart, glad to know that you’re becoming such a good cook.” 

Charles stalked upstairs, hiding a red face behind his books. 

 

As if to further keep up the pretense that Erik couldn’t have made him the waffles, there was pizza delivered for dinner. Charles didn’t like pizza, but if he complained, his mother would yell at him. He put two slices on his plate and turned to go upstairs. 

Erik said, “No, Charles. Stay here and eat with us.” 

Charles was still mad at him for earlier, and his mother didn’t look too pleased, either. But if his mother continued to look displeased, then Erik’s invitation was tempting. 

“Okay.” 

He sat, and watched Erik eat. If Charles only looked at Erik, he didn’t have to look at his mother. He greedily drank in the way Erik sucked cheese from his fingers. Erik was possibly only obscene because he knew he was being watched.

“Charles, your pizza will get cold if you keep staring.” 

Erik’s smirk was come and gone in seconds, but Charles had seen it, and he hated the man for not leaving. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to work. Erik was supposed to leave now, not stay, and smirk at him like he knew things. 

“I’m not hungry.” 

 

His father had left behind for him along with the headphones and the CDs, an old collection of poems written by William Blake. Charles did not care much for poetry, but he liked to skim along the margins and trace over the letters that his father had written. Some letters were lopsided, others were disciplined, like he could not make up his mind. Charles was the same way.

Chopin blocked out the noise from his mother’s bedroom, but when the knock came, Charles put down his book. He took off all his clothes, and opened the door for Erik. 

“You are not my first.” 

“I figured that,” Erik said, as if Charles’ nakedness didn’t seem to faze him at all. He locked the door behind him. “Would you like to tell me about your first time?” 

Charles took Erik’s hands and held it loosely, “Will you touch me if I tell you?” 

“I will touch you however you’d like,” said Erik. You could tell that he had the merest hint of an accent the way his tongue made its way around _however_ , “So long as you tell me. Here, lie down.” 

Charles did. Erik’s fingers explored his face, his eyelids, his nose. He sucked idly on the man’s fingers, until Erik took them away again. He licked his lips, as if to gather up any taste of the man still left near his mouth.

“Did you do that for him, too?” 

Charles kept his eyes closed, “I don’t remember. I must have. He was clumsy. When he touched me, he left marks all over. I don’t even remember his name.” Erik hums quietly in acknowledgement against his skin. “He disgusted me. But I wanted it. I wanted to know so badly how it was like.” 

Erik licked his nipple, and Charles moaned. He remembered his mother was next door, so he quickly clasped a hand over his mouth. Erik licked him there again, and pinched the sensitive bud between his fingers. 

“Did you come, with him?” Erik asked, he slid his mouth over to Charles’ other nipple and tongued that one too. 

“I -- I must have. But it hurt so much, I don’t remember if it felt good. He had a filthy mouth. Everything about him was filthy.” 

Erik was nudging his legs open, kissing heated skin between his thighs. “Did he put his mouth on you? Maybe, like this?” He wrapped his lips around the head of Charles’ cock, and Charles gave a strangled little -- 

“ _Oh._ ” 

Erik’s mouth, with his cock in it, still managed to smirk.

“Like that, don’t you?” Erik wrapped his hands around his balls and squeezed. 

Charles bit down on his tongue. “ -- Yes.” 

That was apparently the right answer, because Erik swallowed him into the hot, wet heat of his mouth, and Charles shut his eyes tight. There had to be other more accurate words to describe what he was feeling, but his hormone-sodden brain didn’t want to do any extra work. 

A few minutes after that, Charles came in Erik’s mouth, and watched hazily as the man wiped come from the edge of his mouth. 

There was a tell-tale bulge in Erik’s pants. He reached for it, but a warm hand clamped down on his wrist.

“Next time, Charles.” 

“But --” When Erik kissed him on the mouth, the man tasted strange. 

“Good night.” 

Erik found the thin blanket that had bunched up at the foot of Charles’ bed and put it over him. Then he left the room. 

Charles waited. The door to his mother’s bedroom did not open or close, maybe Erik was leaving.

 

Erik did not leave.

A month passed. Sometimes Erik came to him at night, sometimes he didn’t. But the bed next door creaked almost every night, and Charles could curl his fingers around himself and imagine Erik’s hand and Erik’s mouth. 

Charles began leaving his door unlocked. 

On a Thursday night, Erik found him on his bed in only a shirt reading Aldous Huxley. It was one of the other books that Brian Xavier had left behind.

“What if Sharon walks in?” 

“She wouldn’t,” said Charles. He didn’t for a moment, doubt his answer, “I look too much like my father. She doesn’t want anything to do with me.” 

“Charles --” 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Charles closed the book with a decisive thud, and set it on the nightstand. “Take off your clothes, I’ll be quiet.” 

Erik was about to lift his shirt over his head, when he seemed to change his mind, “Come with me. Put on some pants.” 

 

They drove out of the city, where it was all quiet. Perhaps there were stars in the skies, or maybe just planes. There was a small lake just a little ways away from where they parked. 

Erik took his hand, and they picked their way together down to the lakeside. They sat on the bank, and dangled bare feet into the cool water. 

This wasn’t something he understood. Since Erik didn’t seem particularly keen on saying anything, Charles nudged him, “Why are we here?” 

“Because I missed this place. I used to come here and play when I was a boy.” 

“Has my mother ever been here with you?” Charles asked. He tried to imagine Erik as a boy. His imagination did not stretch that far.

“No, she hasn’t. I don’t plan to take her here, either.” 

Charles was pretty sure he was not in love with Erik Lehnsherr. He was also pretty sure that the opposite was quite equally true, but sometimes people who did things of a sexual nature together fell in love, and that was normal. 

“Can I put my mouth on you?” There. That was something he understood. He'd read a book at the library on sexual health and the book had a chapter on fellatio. Charles knew how things worked in theory.

“You sound like you practiced,” Erik looked amused. “All right, if you want.” 

Charles didn’t exactly, but the way Erik sighed his name told him that the man didn’t know the difference. 

After the man was spent and dry, Charles climbed into Erik’s lap and put his arms around him. Erik kissed him, and then Charles kissed him back. 

“That wasn’t bad, Charles. Not bad at all.” Erik’s voice was just slightly hoarse, and Charles probably felt more accomplished than he should. “Would you like to go home?” 

“In a minute,” Charles was not in love with Erik, but this was a place where he could have Erik all to himself. He took that fault from his mother. He was selfish too. 

 

“Soon, you will go away again,” said Raven, frowning at the calendar book she held in her hand. Each day that had passed was marked off triumphantly with a red X. “Take me with you, next time?” 

“You know I can’t do that, Raven.” Even if he could, Charles wouldn’t. This summer was teaching him plenty about being a horrible, horrible person. It was all Erik’s fault. He should care that he was becoming a horrible person, but he didn't, not really.

“But, why?”

Her eyes were welling up. Charles stared hard at the paragraph he was currently on because he didn’t like it when girls cried. “Because. I just can’t. Stop asking me, all right?” He wasn’t supposed to hit girls, either, but he felt like hitting her. Just to make her stop. 

“Charles, I hate you,” Raven said. “I hate you, I hate you. You’re just like my dad.” 

A librarian glared in their direction and said, “Shhh.” loudly. 

Raven was gone. Charles took a moment to decide whether or not to go after her, and he decided not to. It was the first time she’d mentioned a father, Charles didn’t even know she had one. But then, he supposed it was not surprising. 

 

When Charles came up to the house, Erik was outside and he was wet. His car was wet too. Charles paid attention to one of those things more than the other.

“Hello, Charles,” Erik greeted him. “Sharon left for an appointment and she said she was meeting a friend for dinner, drinks possibly.” 

Charles dropped his books on the edge of the driveway and went over to kiss him. A car drove by, but he couldn’t exactly bring himself to care. Everything about Erik was wonderful, how he was wet, how he smelled like engine oil. 

But when he pulled away, Erik was frowning, but then Charles blinked and he was smiling again. “If you give me a moment, I will come inside with you and we can get naked.” 

The frown was a lie; Charles searched the man’s face some more, but could not find anything, “All night?” 

“If you’d like, Charles. We can do anything you like.” 

 

What Charles liked was a lot of things. He was a lively boy full of curiosity.

He liked the way Erik massaged shampoo into his hair, and the way Erik shuddered when Charles sucked his nipples. It’s a Pleasure: Your Sexual Health didn’t exactly offer any specific insights on that area, but Charles was getting better and better at improvising. He also liked the way Erik licked the rim of his ear, and the way the man’s fingers opened him up, slowly, like he mattered. 

“-- Hurts?” 

If Charles admitted that it hurt, Erik might stop, he shook his head no, “Just -- just uncomfortable. A little.” 

He could hear Erik breathing next to his ear, which tickled, “It will be better, bear with me.” Then Erik turned Charles’ head towards him for a deep kiss. He licked generous circles around his mouth, and Charles thought that this was the kind of kiss you gave someone you loved more than anyone else in the world. 

He had to be delirious. The pain was making him think strange thoughts, but then Erik curled his fingers just so -- and a lewd noise clawed its way out of Charles’ throat. His hips gave a sharp thrust back into Erik’s fingers. “...Again.” 

Erik did so, and Charles rewarded him with another deep moan. Now he thought he understood, why his mother always kept men around this way. If it was like this every time, he thought he understood. Everything finally made the sort of sense it should. 

“Erik, sogoodsogood...” now he was just as bad as his mother. The worst part of it was, Charles was naked in the shower with Erik Lehnsherr and he didn’t know how to care. Or if he even wanted to care. Erik’s fingers were wonderful, and that was all that mattered. 

“Erik -- I’m,” Charles wanted to say something more eloquent than ‘I’m going to come,’ but it wasn’t possible to find other words. When Erik pulled his fingers away, Charles let out a whine, “Erik.” 

Erik smiled at him like he was a boy who knew nothing, “I want to fuck you. I want to fuck you until you can’t move,” he tilted his head. “Don’t you want that?” 

“...Yes.” Charles wanted a lot more, everything. So long as Erik just hurried up. “Yes, fuck me. I want that.” What more did he have to say? Apparently he was eager enough to not stumble over the world “fuck.” It wasn’t a word that was usually in his vernacular. 

“Good boy, don’t touch yourself, I’ll be right back.”

Erik left the shower. Through the foggy glass, Charles watch him fetch a box of condoms, and he kept an eye on the man’s dick even though his body ached. He was only slightly jealous that Erik also had shower sex with his mother, but his mother was old, and she was disgusting. Erik was none of those things, and deserved better. 

But when Erik came back and told Charles to, “Come here.” in a voice that was entirely too gentle, Charles followed like a lamb to slaughter and didn’t say any of the things he wanted to. My mother is disgusting, don’t bother with her. 

The man thrust into him, hard, deep, and rough. All Charles could do was cling to Erik’s shoulders, leaving nail marks. He said the most obscene things, because it was what lovers said to each other. It wasn’t something he understood. 

“I want -- I want. Oh. Everything. Want to stay with you forever.” The ridiculous thing was that that Charles thought he genuinely meant all those things. 

Erik didn’t say much, but he said Charles’ name when he came over and over until it blurred into his heartbeat. Charles. Charles. Charles. It was the most beautiful thing that Charles had ever heard. 

 

Later, they lay naked together on Charles’ bed with his head pillowed comfortably on Erik’s shoulder. Erik’s arms were wrapped loosely around his waist. Flipping through his father’s old collection of Blake, Charles thought he could forget everything about how completely miserable his life was. 

“This isn’t your handwriting,” Erik traced a finger down one of the margins. 

“It’s my father’s,” said Charles, more gratified than he cared to let on, that Erik took care to note what his handwriting looked like. He gestured over at his bookcase. Erik should have noticed the books before, but then again, to be fair, this was the first time Erik had been in his bedroom for something other than sex. “All these books were his.” 

Erik got quiet. 

“Erik?” Charles touched his face, “Is something the matter?” 

“I just wonder if,” Erik broke off abruptly. “Never mind, Charles, it isn’t anything. Have you read all of them?” 

“Most all of them, the ones I haven’t read I just don’t like.” 

“Your father must be proud of you. Do you want to be like him when you grow up?” 

Erik knew next to nothing about Brian Xavier, but Charles’ face was still warm, “Maybe. He was a doctor.” 

“So long as you’re not like me.” 

“ -- Why not?” Maybe because Erik was sleeping with his forty-year-old mother. Charles would never do that. 

Erik shrugged. 

They stayed just like that, until the clock on his wall read midnight. Erik helped Charles into his nightclothes and buttoned up his pajama top for him. Then he kissed him good night. When Erik was halfway out the door, Charles said, “Can we do this again?” 

He didn’t get an answer. May Erik did not hear him. 

 

That night, Charles noted that the bed next door did not creak, which was just as well, because his headphones weren’t working, but his mother must have come home, because her footsteps were especially loud when she was drunk. 

Finally, he got up and walked to his mother’s room. His mother was asleep, and alone. Charles went downstairs, checked the window. Erik’s car was still in the driveway. 

“I’m in here, Charles.” 

The light was not on in the kitchen, but Erik sat alone at the dining room table drinking a glass of beer. It had to be the cheap beer from under the sink that Charles had to keep pretending not to know about. The man looked old and alone, also something he pretended not to notice. 

“Why are you still awake?” 

“Your mother snores,” which was a lie. Charles had slept next to her for years. “Do you want a drink?” 

“The beer’s too cheap,” Charles walked over to where Erik was sitting and took his hand, “Do you want to sleep in my room? We’ve already had sex, I mean.” Sleeping in a bed clothed seemed a wholesome step backwards, quite reasonable. 

His bed was not meant for two people, but with their legs tangled together, they made do. Charles settled himself in Erik’s arms and watched as the man close his eyes. 

Charles slowed his breathing to match the rise and fall of Erik’s chest, until sleep came for him too. 

 

In the morning, Charles woke up next to Erik on his bed. That wasn’t what had woken up, though. A phone was ringing somewhere. There was a phone next to his Blake book vibrating towards the edge of the end table. 

Charles rescued it before it could fall to the ground. The Caller ID read: Home. Same area code. Perhaps Erik had a roommate who was worried about him. 

He put the phone next to his ear. There was shaky breathing. 

“...Daddy? Mommy says she won’t be mad anymore. Wherever you are, can you come home now? I miss you.” 

Charles opened his mouth; he’d meant to inform whoever was on the other line that Erik was occupied and unable to come to the phone, but he realized he knew the voice. 

It was Raven’s voice. 

"...Daddy? Are you there?" 

He hung up. Suddenly, Charles couldn’t breathe. 

Erik was moving, and when the man reached for him, he barely got out of the way in time. Because Charles wasn’t one to miss details, he checked the man’s hand to see if he’d missed something as obvious as a wedding ring. He didn’t. There wasn’t even a tan line.

“Charles? What’s the matter?” 

“-- Don’t touch me.” Charles threw the phone down on the mattress. “Don’t you _dare_ touch me.” 

A few clicks on his phone later, Erik understood, “Charles, listen.” 

The door to his bedroom opened. In the doorway stood his bleary-eyed mother, “Charles, what in the world? -- Erik.” Her face paled, “Oh, my God, you haven’t. Tell me you haven't.” 

Charles looked between the two of them, and smiled. “Yes, Mother. Yes, he has. Lots of times, but that’s all right, because he absolutely disgusts me.”

In that brief, clear moment, he knew he was going to become someone so much better -- that he could become someone so much better. He was going to leave the both of them behind.

 

Charles was never going to be like Erik Lehnsherr, even though he was the only one who was memorable out of his mother’s men. None of that really mattered. Erik too, would fade with time. Charles was going to become a good man like his dead father, although Charles felt like he never knew him.

Raven clutched his hand tight, “Are we running away?” 

“Yes, we are.” The oncoming train whistle disagreed, letting out a dissonant noise. “We’re going far from here.” 

“Where?” 

“I don’t know,” Charles smiled at her. When the train came to a complete stop, they joined the throng of people waiting to board, “We can go wherever we’d like.”


End file.
